The Journal of Silas Cromwell
by Boston Manor
Summary: I thought I'd try a different type of story telling. Hopefully this will work, you'll see what I mean once things get going. The poor gentleman of the title has an experience that will change his life. Please R&R. COMPLETE at last!
1. My Journal

This is a different type of story that I thought I would try out. It may work, or it may not – doubtless you will let me know through your R&R! Original characters are mine, others, obviously, are not.

 **Introduction**

This is the account of me, Silas Cromwell, a country gentleman. I have been asked to commit this history to writing to act as a warning to any others who may attempt what I am about to recall. I have written this account directly from my journal, so it will therefore follow each day's events in its presentation.

Being a country gentleman meant that, in common with many of my peers, I had a social status well beyond what my actual income allowed me to support. In times gone past I would have been termed 'Lord of the Manor' and held in utmost respect, but with the weakening of the established order by the passing of recent somewhat pernicious Acts of Parliament I now find myself somewhat hard pressed to enjoy what should otherwise be a comfortable and easy existence.

My seat was Cromwell Hall, a house of some historical significance situated on rising ground three miles south-east of Reigate in the county of Surrey. Here I managed nine hundred acres of best farmland with high yields of corn, barley and wheat, along with the villages of Great and Little Fontingford and their six hundred souls. My normal duties included such bastions of English life as presiding over the village fête and appointing the local vicar to the Parish Church of St Michael's and All Angels; acting as the local Magistrate in cases of minor felony; and of course seeing to the well being of those in my charge.

My wife, Sarah, had died some years prior to the events of this account, and my sons Henry and Albert – good royal names I trust the reader will note – were in their twenties at the time. Both were serving with Her Majesty's forces abroad, Henry (the elder) in Sudan and Albert in India. The Hall ran with a full complement of staff as befitted my position in local society, although perilously ruinous to my pocket. But it did mean that I was never alone, nor lonely – there was always much to do to ensure the smooth running of the estate. Butlers, Footmen, Housekeepers, maids, right down to the lowliest cook's assistant and lamp maid, I knew them by name and most I had personally appointed. Some stayed for years on end, like Legg the Head Butler; others in the very nature of their employment spent a little time with me and then as they developed moved on to other houses, near or far.

Of my staff, I especially valued my valet, Gibson, who had come to me after service as Butler to Lord and Lady Hevellyn at their seat in Kent, a servant and companion of indispensable quality. Having been with me for the past three years, he was one of those fortunate men able to see to the root of any problem or issue that may arise on the Estate, and suggest solutions – or at the very least, he knew someone of whom to enquire. Many was the time when by his advice I had been saved considerable inconvenience.

Which makes what followed so upsetting.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Hopefully you now have a picture of the sort of life I led – quiet, ordered, and responsible. I took my duties seriously. Although I have never served my country of the field of campaign – my ill health as a child precluded active service in the Armed Forces – I ensured that soldiers from the local garrison at Denningham were welcomed to local events and they were quite adopted by the villagers as 'their own' – as one or two subsequent betrothals demonstrated. I believe I was respected by those for whom I was responsible, and a steady stream of visitors on both official and unofficial capacity meant that a day was never dull.

It was panning out to be a quiet year – well, quieter than usual. It had started with the snow, of course, and I had been able to lend charity to some of the widows in the villages who were hard put to it in the conditions. Spring was late because of the long winter, but when it came the crops started to grow rapidly as if making up for lost time. All looked well.

So now I trust you have enough to be going on with, and you have formed a picture in your mind of an easy-going gentleman of moderate means, willing and ready to help where needed, a person respectable and law abiding. So why this account?

Because of what I have already stated: let what follows be a warning to every reader.

I will now recount the events of that fateful two weeks as they occurred.


	2. 15th May

_Characters so far are my own. This story (and this is the different bit) will unfold in 'real time' ..._

 **15** **th** **May:** This evening I retired to the Smoking Room after a busy day judging the best cakes at the Spring Fair in Little Fontingford when Gibson brought me my evening drink. I could tell immediately that something was troubling him, and so tactfully I enquired as to what the cause of his disquiet might be. He said there was nothing the matter but I persisted and at last he shared with me. I have tried to recall the words we spoke, and the following is I believe an accurate record of what was discussed.

"I have received a letter, Sir," he started. "It is a letter with such troubling content that I must ask you to swear never to make it known outside of this room."

"Of course, you have my word."

"It is a letter containing a threat, Sir."

"Threat?"

"A threat on my life, Sir."

"Is there an indication of the sender?" I asked, hopefully, although when he replied in the negative I was hardly surprised. "Can I see it?"

Reluctantly he took the letter from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. I looked closely at the envelope to see if there was any indication of the sender's identity, but it was blank other than the word 'GIBSON' in crude block capital letters.

"Clearly this has not come through the postal system."

"No, Sir, it was on the servants' door mat this morning. No-one saw who left it."

"Very well." I opened the envelope and removed the single sheet of white paper. The writing on it was also in block capitals, again crudely put as though to disguise the identity of the writer.

"' _The sum of one thousand pounds for our silence. Speak of this and death follows. More to follow._ ' Is that it? What does it mean? Silence about what?"

"I do not know, Sir. I imagine that there will be a further communication in due course which will explain the matter further."

"This is intolerable, Gibson. I am sorry you have suffered such an injustice. I will personally see to it that this is resolved. Have no fear, now, and if another letter arrives let me know as soon as possible. In the meantime I will alert the local constabulary."

"No Sir! You promised."

"But surely we must involve the Police? This is blackmail."

"Let it ride, please, Sir, at least for the immediate future. I know you will support me whatever happens, and for that I am most grateful."

"I will indeed, Gibson. All I want you to do is to consider what it is they may be referring to. We have known each other long enough, and if there is anything I need to know then please, you need to tell me."

"I really cannot think of anything at present, Sir," he replied, "but rest assured I will give the matter my attention and you will be the first to know should either a further letter arrive or if I consider there is something to which it may pertain."

With that he bade me goodnight and I must admit that I thought little more of the matter. After all, I thought, what secrets could a reliable valet like Gibson be hiding?


	3. 17th May

_More 'real time' revelations … just a short one this time._

 **17** **th** **May:** Gibson asked to see me privately after breakfast. Another letter has been delivered, during the night, again no-one had seen who had brought it. He handed the letter to me. I noticed it was unopened.

"I am fearful of what it may contain," he explained. "Please open it on my behalf."

"Very well." I inspected the envelope. The crude block capitals again spelled out the name 'GIBSON' as before, with no other visible marks. I used the paper knife to slice the envelope open.

"' _You have shared the matter, so now five thousand pounds or the clock runs out. Await instructions._ '" For a moment I looked blankly at the page. "How did they know?"

"I have not told a living soul, believe me, Sir."

"I do. This is very worrying. Is there someone in the Hall who is in on the matter? Who could have overheard?"

Gibson seemed about to say something, but then stopped himself. I pursued the matter.

"Come now, if you have any suspicions then you must tell me."

"I would rather not at this stage, Sir. Please may we await to see if anything further develops? It may still be a joke in bad taste."

"Some joke," I opined. "Very well, we will say no more of this matter for now. But, Gibson, at the next letter we must take action – or at the very least you must share your suspicions."

And that was that. No more was said that day.


	4. 18th May

_There comes a point where there is only one thing you can do ..._

 **18** **th** **May** **:** After sleeping on the matter I had almost put Gibson's concerns down as a jest in poor taste when in the evening he came into the Study, once more in agitation.

"Another letter?"

"Yes Sir."

"Then let me see it, man."

He passed it to me; the same as before, just the word 'GIBSON' on the envelope. It was unopened, so those honours fell to me.

"' _Ten thousand pounds, or the master's life._ ' Right, I have had enough of this. We need to inform the Police of this matter. This has moved beyond empty taunts."

"No Sir, please, not the Police."

"Why not?"

"There is some history between us."

I admit to some astonishment at this news. "You did not tell me this at your appointment."

"It was nothing serious, Sir, you must understand. There was … a lady I had the misfortune to encounter during my service with Lord and Lady Hevellyn. She had been abandoned by a lover, she said, and was with child. I had helped her after she had lost everything, but she then accused me of a crime of which I assure you I was entirely innocent. It was only after she herself disappeared that the case was dropped. But the Inspector told me that I was going to be observed from then on."

"When was this?"

"Just before I came here, Sir."

I considered this for a moment.

 _Looking at my journal with the benefit of hindsight, was the decision I came to at that moment the right one? I certainly thought so at the time._

"Very well, we will not go to the Police. But I am most disappointed in you. No secrets from now, you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Very well. We must get to the bottom of this matter, Gibson."

"If you are insistent, Sir, I do have a suggestion."

"Out with it man."

"There is a private detective who may be able to assist."

"Only if you are sure he will be able to handle this with tact."

"I am sure he will Sir. As you know I am a Member of Drake's Club in Mayfair. You understand the nature of these establishments, what with you being a member of Dulcet's yourself. We gentlemen of service meet to socialise and … if I may describe it tastefully Sir, discuss the whims and notions of those we serve."

My reply was probably colder than necessary. "I see. I trust you paint me in a good light."

"Of course, Sir, I hold you in high regard."

"Well …?"

"Sir Archibald's man told me of a situation in which this detective was a great help in solving. He works – differently – than others of similar persuasion. I believe the way out of this lies with that person."

"His name?" I thought I knew, and thus it was no surprise when it came.

"Sherlock Holmes, Sir."


	5. 25th May

_Thank you for the positive reviews so far. And if you want to do a bit of detective work yourself, all of my FF inhabits the same universe, and there have been enough clues so far as to who the protagonist is going to be._

 **25** **th** **May:** At Gibson's suggestion I have left the engagement of the private detective to his own exertions, especially since the roof of the Hall has decided to spring a leak this last week, requiring the urgent attention of old Foster and his team of competent but extremely talkative maintenance helpers. I am fortunate in having so many willing and able helpers to assist me; although at times such as this I do miss the companionship of my late wife, and even that of my sons.

But needs must. In all the mad rush of the past week or so I have had to leave much of the running of the house's day to day affairs, such as the engagement of staff, to Cummings my Estate Manager – which he tactfully reminds me is his job anyway. I trust I took his gentle rebuke in good grace. I have since seen a few new faces in the gardens which show he is doing a competent job – although some of these new recruits do not seem to be naturally gifted in the jobs to which they have been allotted. I have resolved to deal with the matter later, after all the fuss has died down, and suggest a few changes; doubtless to then receive some more kind words about estate management from Cummings.

This evening Gibson asked for a private audience, which of course I granted without hesitation.

"Another letter?" I asked with trepidation.

"No, sir, better and more positive news. I have seen the detective gentleman in question, sir."

"Excellent. Baker Street, isn't it? I have business in London next week, we could see him then."

"No sir, once I had been introduced through the good recommendation of King – Sir Archibald's valet, Sir, if you recall – he said that he would be down shortly."

"A personal visit, eh?"

"Indeed, Sir. I believe he was quite intrigued. He spent a lot of time inspecting the letters. His companion, Doctor Watson I believe, was not there, though, but may accompany him. He said to expect him tomorrow or the day after."

"That soon? I am impressed, Gibson. Very well, we will see what comes of it. You emphasised the need for secrecy of course?"

"Yes, Sir; if there is someone in the house who is watching us, as I believe there must be, then Mr Holmes knows how to act."

With that I must say that my sense of relief was almost overpowering. The past few days have been tense – no other letters have arrived, but there has been an undercurrent of expectancy and I am glad that at last the solution to this annoying matter is going to be found. Of that I have no doubt.


	6. 26th May

_Just a short entry in the journal as things seem to be coming to a climax of sorts …_

 **26** **th** **May:** Knowing that help was on the way meant that I spent today in a better frame of mind than I had done for a while. However this evening Gibson came to me with face as white as a sheet. I knew immediately what had happened.

"Another letter, Gibson?"

He handed it to me, unopened. I slit it open with the opener.

"' _Death tomorrow, or fifteen thousand pounds._ ' This is ridiculous, Gibson."

He could not raise his head to look at me.

"Look, I am going to do something that I have been considering for a fair while, Gibson. I know help is on the way, but nevertheless I am resolved. You have been a good companion to me, I don't know what I would have done after Sarah's death, and your advice has always been of great value."

"Thank you Sir, I do aim to please."

"So – I am going to get the money."

"No, Sir!" he exclaimed. "You cannot! I won't have it!"

"Now listen, Gibson. It is my money and I can do with it what I will. My boys both have commissions, you are the nearest thing to family I have. I will do this for you."

"But the finances won't stand it, Sir. That is an enormous sum of money."

"The finances will stand it, Gibson, for I do not intend parting with it."

His face was a blank stare.

"We only have to get as far as Mr Holmes' arrival and then, assuming his reputation is all it is made out to be, all will be well. Whoever is sending these letters has to collect the money at some point, and I am convinced from the accounts I read of Mr Holmes that together we will be able to come up with something that will bring an end to this nightmare."

He seemed unable to counter this argument.

"Very well, Sir. And I will make up the guest bedrooms for our visitors."

"Plural?"

"I am assuming Doctor Watson may attend as well as Mr Holmes."

"Make it so, Gibson."

I slept well that night. I knew what I would do.


	7. 27th May

_And so onto the scene come our heroes at last … who are of course creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All other characters are mine._

 **27** **th** **May:** I was starting to despair of the promised help arriving. I spent the day anxiously watching the clock.

At last, about nine in the evening, I heard the rattle of a chaise as it made its way up the gravel drive. Sure enough, I was shortly summoned to the Great Hall to meet our guests.

"Ah, Mr Cromwell," said the taller of the two, "so good to meet you. And what an interesting problem, don't you think?" The other gentleman whispered something in his ear. "Ah, yes," he continued, "I believe social convention requires an introduction."

"I know who you are, Mr Holmes," I replied, crossing the room to shake his hand. "And of course Doctor Watson, your chronicler."

"So what do you think, then?" asked Holmes. "Four letters, Gibson tells me, with demands and threats. Capital!" He clapped his hands together.

"You are enjoying this, Mr Holmes?"

"It is different from where I am standing," he replied.

"You are certainly right in that deduction. You do not have the threats against you."

"Come now, the resolution is simple."

"Indeed?" I was starting to find Holmes' manner somewhat irksome.

"Yes, you must pay the demand. But we will set a trap. The money will be safe. All we need is … well, some money, really."

"I told Gibson last night the very same thing," I replied, pleased that my own ideas so closely paralleled those of the 'great detective'. "I have made the arrangements, and the sum of fifteen thousand pounds is even now on its way here from the Bank."

Holmes let out a low whistle. "I see I have met a mind of considerable intellect, Mr Cromwell," he said. "I congratulate you."

Maybe he wasn't as irksome as I first thought. "We just need to know where to take the money, and then set a trap," I continued.

"Surely," said Watson, "since there are now so many of us, we could spy out all the possible places a letter could be delivered, and then avoid any possibility of needing to make the payment."

"Normally correct, Watson," said Holmes with a smile on his face, "but if I am not much mistaken – and I am not, of course – I believe a search of the premises will discover that the final letter has already been delivered."

"Make it so," I said to Gibson, and he left the room to make the arrangements with Legg. We passed a short time in general conversation, taking brandy and smoking, until Gibson returned. He carried an envelope.

"It was in the wine cellar, Sir," he said miserably. "Tucked into the top of one of the crates along with the other delivery notes."

"How did they know we would look for a letter that had already been delivered?" I said, almost to myself. Holmes was quick to reply.

"Because they know that by know you are on alert. It would have been slipped in amongst other deliveries, even the person making the delivery was probably unaware of it."

I opened the letter.

"' _Gibson only. Garden lake. Eleven o'clock. No witnesses. We will be watching. We will kill anyone other than Gibson._ ' Great heavens, that's only an hour!"

Almost on cue, the rattle of hooves and wheels in the drive announced the arrival of another vehicle. I was pleased to see that this time, it was the bullion van from the Bank, carrying the money. I quickly arranged delivery, and checked the contents. Fifteen thousand pounds in promissory notes did not look a great deal of paper, but my heart skipped a beat when I considered the effect on the estate if anything should go wrong.

I despatched the van, and then we made our plans quickly. Holmes wanted me – or indeed any of my staff – in no danger, so with my agreement he and Watson would position themselves so as to see who was making the collection. Gibson would carry a whistle to call for help, and I also forced on him my revolver.

"You must take it," I said. "Only as a last resort, but these people have threatened you – and me – and I would feel more comfortable knowing that you had it available to you."

He gave way and accepted it.

The clock chimed the three quarter hour as Gibson left to make his way to the lake, making his way down the Honeysuckle drive, well lit in the clear moonlight. Holmes and Watson stayed behind for a few minutes, before setting off in the opposite direction, down the Cedar avenue so that they could then cut through the woods to the lake and arrive at about the same time as Gibson. I shall never forget those parting words of Holmes.

"Have no fear, and do NOT follow us. If needs be, we will make pursuit if pursuit is required, but we will return and all will be well. Gibson is safe and your money is safe."

I don't know what went on down by the lakeside. I heard the whistle blowing urgently, and I heard the shots.

I tremble to recall my failure. After Holmes' assurances I was so confident that all was in hand that I was expecting them to come back up to the house at any moment with Gibson's opponents in their captivity. I waited almost an hour before setting out for the lake myself to see what had befallen. There were signs of a struggle. There was blood on the ground. There was no sign of anyone, nor of the money. Just a note pinned to an oak.

 _'We have them. Their lives are forfeit unless you give us everything. You have broken faith, so no police, no detectives. The deeds of the house and estate, two hours, here, with handwritten testimony that you do this of your own free will.'_


	8. 28th May

_Which brings us to the crisis …_

 **28** **th** **May:** All I have worked for is over. Gibson, Holmes and Watson are doubtless captured, injured or God forbid, dead. All I can now do is to deliver the requested documents to the abductors as quickly as I can, and that will be the end of all I have worked for. See in what unsteady hand I write this note even as events unfold.

I go straight to where the documents are stored, of course; I rush into the study to retrieve them from the safe. I write the note as requested, and then, I do not know why, perhaps some premonition or foreboding, I also take my second revolver, tucking it into my overcoat pocket. Then at full pelt I am away, reckless as I run across the lawns and fields. I am breathless as I approach the lake. To my right I see a light in the trees; I go towards it and see a fire burning. Nailed to a post next to the fire a note:

 _'Leave the documents here. The prisoners will be returned to you at nine o'clock.'_

What can I do but to comply? Sadly I make my way back to the house. With a sense of deep loss, heartbreak even, the awful truth dawns on me; it is no longer mine. How bitter the thought! But (so I reason to myself) I have saved the lives of three good men, and that is surely better than any amount of bricks and mortar. I may have lost the inheritance I was going to pass to my sons, but as men of honour and duty they will understand. I have done the right thing.

I enter the study again and sit in my chair. The fire has long since gone out, and the darkness is total. Perhaps I doze for a brief time, but suddenly I am awake. I am aware of a presence in the room – I am not alone! My revolver is in my hand as a leap from the chair, but before I can let off the shot, I am attacked by a second person; I am wrestled to the ground. The revolver is taken from me, and a light is uncovered. I look into two unfamiliar faces.

"My apologies, Cromwell, for our rough handling of you," says the taller one. "But you will understand we are rather against being shot. Let me introduce myself. My name is Sherlock Holmes."


	9. 29th May

_The last entry in the Journal. But perhaps not the end of the story?_

 **29** **th** **May:** How could I not have seen it? How could I have been so foolish?

Yesterday Mr Holmes calmly and quietly told me the situation as he sees it. I find no comfort in his assertions that even he was unclear 'to start with' and that even now there are matters 'for further investigation'. But it is all so wrong.

I have lost everything. The house, the estate, the inheritance. I have signed it away, to all intents and purposes and according to 'the law', of my own free will. I can't prove anything. I am broken.

I care not that that under my land lay extensive coal deposits. If the mining company had come to me, I would have negotiated with them. I am all for modern industry, I would not have resisted. Why did they have to take the route they did, bringing ruin on me?

And Gibson.

He kept his secret well, did he not? Three years in my service and not once did I realise he was working for them as well as me. The whole matter of the threatening letters – he wrote them of course. I suppose they wanted the money as well as the land.

How can I face my sons? Or my employees who I have sold?

If only Holmes had been on hand to help earlier. He seemed to be trying to apologise for something, but whatever it was, it never came. Watson just said for me to make an account, which I have done through the auspices of this Journal. Let it stand as a warning.

Now Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson have left, I am alone. I will take a walk by the lake to take stock. I will take my revolver with me. Just in case you understand.


	10. The Fight Back Starts

_We now move into a more narrative style for the remainder of this epic. Did the 'daily journal' work as a means of telling the first part of the story? All characters today are the creation of ACD._

 **The Fight Back Starts**

Watson looked at Holmes in astonishment.

"Calm down, Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Rarely have I seen you so agitated!"

"With good reason, though, wouldn't you agree?" spat Holmes. "Unbelievable! How could I have failed in such a way?"

"You mustn't take it upon yourself too harshly," Watson replied. "You were not to know."

"But I was. It is my job to know."

The sunlight dimmed from the street outside 221B Baker Street as a cloud passed in front of the sun. It perfectly reflected the mood within the room.

"Mr. Holmes," ventured Gregson, "the Doctor is right. You mustn't take this personally."

Holmes was about to say something, but held back. He held up his hands in defeat.

"As you say, Gregson. But we are going to do something about it now, nonetheless."

"I am at your disposal, Mr. Holmes."

"Very well. First you must do everything to keep Silas Cromwell's suicide out of the newspapers for as long as you can."

"I have some influence."

"Good. Now we need to tease out his antagonists - like pus from a wound."

"Very colourful, Holmes!" interrupted Watson, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"And to do this we need to set a trap for them," continued Holmes, ignoring him. "It still grates, though; we were so close."

"Mr. Holmes, you may have been at the right place but not at the right time," replied Gregson. "The fact you were even summoned to Cromwell Hall at least has meant that you now have an opportunity to do something about it."

Holmes' mood turned darker again. "I was a fool. John Cummings summoned me to help when he saw his master becoming so worried, although he didn't know what about. But I should have looked deeper. That's my responsibility. Instead, all we did between us, Watson, was to ruin some of Mr. Cromwell's flower beds."

"We are not natural groundmen, Holmes, that I will accept," replied Watson. "I expect we stuck out like a sore thumb."

"If only Cromwell had told others that he had engaged us," continued Holmes. "Then we would have known the time for the completion of their scheme was approaching. To think there are people passing themselves off as me! Intolerable! Or even you, my dear fellow!" he added quickly, almost as an afterthought. "But he kept that secret well hidden; doubtless at the behest of Gibson. And then of course I got bored, and we left …" His voice trailed off.

"So, how do we draw them out, Holmes?" encouraged Watson.

"I need to review events so far," he replied. He picked up the pages of Cromwell's journal again. "We need to find the fake Holmes and Watson, those two rogues who, with Gibson, arranged the whole thing and drove him to take his life. It would be good to know what mining company they represented, but even that is eluding me at present. Give me a moment."

Watson drew Gregson a glass of brandy whilst Holmes sat down by the window, looking out absent-mindedly at the bustle of the street below. After a few moments he drew a deep breath.

"Well, it's not original, but it will have to do. Based on the fact that the suicide is not public knowledge yet, we need to place an advertisement in the London Gazette."

"I'll get onto it right away, Holmes," replied Watson, "What wording?"

"Along the lines of 'Mr. Silas Cromwell advises that he has found additional papers which rightly belong to others and for them to make contact at the Hall.' Yes, that should suffice. Sufficiently vague as to what papers these might be, but enough for those who have had recent contact with Cromwell – his antagonists - to think that it is worth the effort of getting them."

"Won't they be suspicious, Holmes?"

"They do not know he is dead. They will imagine that they have broken him so far that he just wants to co-operate. Remember that as far as he knows, Gibson, 'Holmes' and 'Watson' are still captives. The nine o'clock deadline in the final note has long passed, and the three of them have not been returned as the note promised. His mind must, they will think, be in turmoil. They don't know we are now genuinely involved, and that we were able to speak to him before he took his life. The wording will be read as a plea for them to get back in touch with him, with news of his trusty valet if not of us."

"Do you have any suspicions, though, Holmes?" asked Watson.

"None that I will share at present," he replied darkly. "Now, let us be at it. I have a score to settle."


	11. Preparing to Meet

_Holmes is on the warpath. He, Watson, Mycroft, Lestrade and Gregson are inventions of SCD. Other characters are mine._

 **The Chase**

Holmes did not like to be kept waiting. As the days passed Watson could see him getting more and more intolerant of anything that caused him to detract from the case in hand. Each day the copy of the Gazette was purchased, each day it was thrown aside in the absence of any return communication.

Watson was in fact getting extremely worried for his friend. Holmes had started not to eat (again) and he guessed he might be heading towards another instance of taking cocaine. The suicide of Cromwell had hit him hard; and despite Watson's efforts to reassure him that there was nothing that could have been done on the basis of the facts to hand at the time, Holmes seemed to have taken his perceived failure very badly. "If only …" he murmured again and again.

Watson knew the only thing that would shake Holmes from his growing depression would be progress. And yet it refused to come.

Until three days had passed. An advertisement at last appeared in the London Gazette on the Wednesday morning. Holmes was elated.

"'Cromwell, 51A Fenchurch Street. Midnight Wednesday.' Ha!" he exclaimed. "I knew it! So, they wish to meet. But not at the Hall. Interesting. An address in Fenchurch Street, near Billingsgate and the river. I feel as though I should know something about that. But the fog is thick, I'm afraid my dear fellow."

"Sorry, Holmes, but on this occasion you only have yourself to blame. You will find no pity from me."

Holmes smiled. "My Doctor does worry himself. Very well, Watson, with your blessing or without. But progress at last." He paused. "We need to get ready," he continued.

"Of course," replied Watson. "Do you want me to get Gregson?"

"Not at present, I think," Holmes said. "Let's see what happens. The hunt is on, Watson. Time is ebbing away. We need everything to be in place for midnight tonight."

"Very well."

"We are likely to need your trusty friend as well."

"My revolver is always ready to help!"

Holmes sat down in his chair by the window. "And, Watson, could you ask Mrs. Hudson for a hearty breakfast, please? I appear to have forgotten to eat for some time."

"Indeed you have," laughed Watson. "It shall be done."

As Watson's footsteps receded down the passage, Holmes picked up Cromwell's journal again and flicked quickly through the entries of the last few days of his life. With a heavy sigh he rose and wrote out the wording for a telegram, and made his way downstairs and out of the house whilst Watson was in conversation with their landlady.

-o0o—

Holmes and Watson started the evening with a good solid meal courtesy of Mrs' Hudson's finest recipe for roast duck, which she had prepared (so she said) as a celebration of 'Mr Holmes being in his right mind again'.

"You must tell me one thing," said Watson, sitting back in contentment at the end of the repast.

"I am yours for the moment," replied Holmes.

"What do you think we will face tonight?"

Holmes paused. "I believe that tonight may mark the start of a course of events that will have a bearing on Gregson's work - and that of his estimable colleagues - in the metropolis for a good few years to come."

"How so?"

"You cannot see it, then? No, of course, you would not. Let us just say that the people involved, if not stopped, will move onto considerably greater things than mere extortion."

"So what needs to be done?"

"I still have a score to settle regarding Mr. Cromwell. That is who they will be expecting tonight, Watson. So when we turn up, I trust that they will see reason. I have a proposal for them. And if they do not, we will make a tactical withdrawal and let Gregson deal with them; for by then we will know who we are dealing with."

"You have no idea at present?"

"I have my suspicions, but I will not share them yet. But I am nervous, and that's why we need to bring this to a swift conclusion. I fear for John Cummings. He and I go back some way together - he has risen from where he started life from; as one of my unofficial assistants, running errands and being an extra pair of eyes and ears."

"Your 'Baker Street Irregulars'?"

"Indeed, the same."

"Don't tell Gregson or Lestrade. 'A motley crew of pick pockets and small time thieves, Mr. Holmes, and I don't mind telling you to your face' was how Gregson left it last time."

"Perhaps," replied Holmes. "But they have played an important role in helping me in the past. I cannot be everywhere, and my face has become well known in some quarters. They may be the cause of some grief to Gregson, but be assured that were it not for their involvement, they would have known greater."

"So why are you nervous?"

"I don't want him involved. Were Mr. Cromwell's antagonists to go to the house, Cummings is exactly the sort of person they would inevitably contact. And I don't know how either he nor they would react."

"In what way?"

"He is from the streets. It might escalate matters and very quickly get out of control." He paused. "I want justice for Cromwell, Watson, and to do that we have to play along for a while with what they want, and on our terms."

"So that's the reason for no outside help?"

"Most certainly," he replied. "I don't want Gregson within a mile of us tonight."

"So what is the plan?"

"We attend 51A Fenchurch Street as requested. I have sent word to Mycroft about my intentions. If we are not back here by 2am then he has instructions."

"Let us make ready then."

"Thank you, Watson. Ever my trusty companion."

-o0o-

They left Baker Street at twenty minutes to midnight. The rumble of the hansom died out in the quiet of the late evening, punctuated only by a dog barking and an owl calling. Thick fog lay over the capital.

Ten minutes later, Gregson was hammering at the door. After a few minutes more, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, a poker in her hand.

"Why Mr. Gregson!" she exclaimed, "What is the matter? Why all the noise?"

"Where are they?"

"Out. They went off about ten minutes ago. Mr. Holmes was very secretive."

Gregson let out a low curse under his breath. He showed Mrs. Hudson the paper he was holding; a telegram from his colleagues in Surrey.

 _ **CROMWELL HALL STOP CUMMINGS DEAD STOP SEE NOTE STOP**_

There was a second piece of paper. As Mrs. Hudson took it from Gregson's trembling hand, she saw with horror the blood on it.

"It was pinned to his body evidently," he told her simply.

 _ **HOLMES. WE KNOW. HE TOLD US EVERYTHING.**_


	12. At Fenchurch Street

_A race against time, and the revelations start. All characters named in this chapter are creations of ACD._

 **At Fenchurch Street**

51A Fenchurch Street was reached by venturing down a dark alleyway between two large tenement blocks. The fog muffled every sound as Holmes and Watson walked carefully. All kinds of rubbish crunched beneath their feet. The squeal of rats was ever present. Somewhere – it was impossible to tell how far away – a baby was crying.

Watson involuntarily felt for his revolver. The atmosphere was oppressive.

"I don't like this, Holmes," he whispered.

"What must be done, must be done," Holmes replied. "Remember the reason for our visit. Right must be done. Silas Cromwell must be able to rest in peace."

"Perhaps, but I wish that you went out to settle scores on more pleasant nights."

"The night is not of my choosing."

They came to a door at the end of the alleyway. What light there was revealed it to be a warehouse of some kind. The door was broken and off its hinges.

"Into the lion's den, then?" asked Watson quietly.

"I trust not," replied Holmes, and stepped through the forbidding entrance.

The building was not completely dark. On the opposite side from the entrance, light from the never ceasing riverside commerce filtered through windows obscured by years of dirt and grime.

"That smell!" whispered Watson.

Holmes stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh," he said.

"What?"

"I fear that I may have been a little too ambitious."

"Come on, man, tell me." Watson's voice was rising.

"We need to go."

"What, now?"

"Yes. Most certainly. Go. Now."

-o0o-

Gregson was running full pelt through the dark streets. Every so often he stopped for breath, and blew his whistle. Gradually more constables joined him, summoned by the signal.

Meanwhile Mrs Hudson tried to tidy Holmes' room a little. Gregson had insisted on entry, and after a few minutes had found a circled notice in that morning's Gazette. With a cry he had gone, leaving the room in some disarray – but his search had been fast and untidy.

Running along Oxford Street, his heart racing fit to burst, he had at last seen what he had hoped for – a police wagon, fresh from delivering its latest load of disreputables to the local station. He commandeered it with relief.

"Fenchurch Street, get on with it!" he shouted. As many of the constables as who were able clambered into the vehicle. Those that were left, he told to go to the nearest police station, rouse as many as were able, and to get to Fenchurch Street as quickly as possible.

-o0o-

Suddenly the room was filled with light. Torches were uncovered all around them as the full size of the building was revealed. A hundred feet long and as much wide, and at least sixty feet high. There were perhaps two dozen men standing around the periphery of the room, but one man stood in the middle.

"Good evening, Holmes!"

"Good evening, Clay. I see we were expected."

"I see that you expected me as well. Touché! But, I am so sorry, how rude of me. Will you join me?"

The table he stood by was laid with drink and food. Three chairs were arranged around it. He indicated for them to sit.

"How pleasant it is to re-make acquaintances!" he said. "You really must tell me what you have been up to, Mr. Holmes." There was clear emphasis on the 'Mister'. "But first, I have a question for you. How did you know?"

"I keep watch," replied Holmes. "I see how things are planned. I start to see the patterns. The patterns reveal the controlling mind."

"So you think you can read me like a book? I find that insulting, Holmes. I am far above that."

"Come along, Clay!" exclaimed Holmes. "Stop putting up a front! You now control Moriarty's empire, that I know. But I would you tell me - why Silas Cromwell? What did he have that was so important to you? To go to all that trouble, even down to impersonating Watson and I? It was you who impersonated me at Cromwell Hall, was it not?"

Clay sat back in his chair. "So you really don't know?"

"There are gaps. Doubtless I would fill them given time, but I would prefer you to explain it to me. So much more efficient use of my time."

"You don't change, do you?" Clay replied. "I have enough reason to hate you, Holmes, you know that don't you? Don't you wonder why we're here still talking? Believe me, kindness is not a character failing I possess. My background is such that I don't have time for that."

"You are of no more royal blood than I, Clay. It's about time you faced up to that."

Clay's eyes flared, but he controlled himself. The wine glass shook in his hand as he drank.

"Afterwards, perhaps, I might have some sport, Holmes, but not yet."

-o0o-

Gregson cursed under his breath. The barrier and deep excavation for the new sewer barred progress along The Strand. "We'll have to find another way, Sir!" said the driver.

"Do it, then!" he shouted. He looked at his pocket watch. Ten past midnight.

-o0o-

"Afterwards?" said Watson. "After what?"

Holmes sighed. "After we have met the real brains behind the operation. The operation to draw me to this place. The operation to kill me. It's so obvious."

Watson looked at his friend in shock. "What's obvious?"

"The smell," Holmes replied simply. "We're where the trail of revenge began."

"I'm sorry, Holmes!" spluttered Watson. "You're making no sense."

"The smell of 'white powder', Watson."


	13. To Southwark

_As I said a few chapters ago, all of my work lies in the same universe. So this should come as no surprise. All named characters, bar one, are ACD's of creation._

 **To Southwark**

Gregson and six other constables arrived at 51A Fenchurch Street shortly after thirty minutes past midnight. All was silent as their eyes grew accustomed to the low light. Food and drink left on a table in the middle of the room showed a cold meal had recently been consumed by three people. There were no signs of struggle. There were no signs of anything.

"You're sure this was the place, Sir?" asked one of the policemen.

"Yes," he replied. "But clearly we're too late. Obviously they've gone on somewhere – or been taken."

"Against their will?"

"No evidence to suggest either way." He paused for a moment. "Search the place anyway. And find out what that smell is."

The constables fanned out and started to search the building. Gregson stood by the table, deep in thought. His eye was drawn to a napkin. Picking it up, he turned it in his hand. Nothing. But then he saw the numbers, scratched onto the table top and which had been hidden by the napkin.

 _1240_.

"One thousand, two hundred and forty whats?" he mused.

A moment later he was shouting for his men to get out of the building.

-o0o-

Holmes and Watson sat towards the stern of the small steam launch as it made its way along the Thames, handcuffed to the gunwale rail. Clay stood beside them, in a state of high excitement.

"There's nothing you can do, Holmes!" he exclaimed. "They won't find it in time."

"Of course they will," replied Holmes steadily.

"This is Gregson we're talking about, Holmes" said Watson. "I know you don't always see eye to eye, but you must accept he is in danger. And there's nothing we can do."

"There's always something we can do," replied Holmes. " _And Gregson is among the better of the Yarders,_ " he whispered.

"There's not much you can do if you're dead, Holmes, remember that." Clay turned to one of his associates. "You're sure he is there?"

"I saw the signal, sir, as we were leaving."

"Good." Clay moved towards the bow and looked at his watch. "Any moment – now!"

The skyline was lit from below with a bright light as a cloud of smoke and debris was thrown high into the air. Moments later a deep _boom_ echoed across the water. Clay turned to Holmes and Watson, the smile on his face lit by the flames. Pieces of timber and stone started to pepper the water about them.

Clay removed his hat and stood theatrically to attention, head bowed. "A moment of silence, gentlemen, for the esteemed but now late Inspector Tobias Gregson."

Watson tried to stand but was pushed back down by his guard. "You …!"

"Now, now, Doctor," replied Clay coldly. "A time to live, a time to die."

"I promise, as long as I live …"

"Which will not be long if you do not keep your peace, Doctor." Clay's voice was rising.

Holmes laid his hand on Watson's arm. "Later," he said. "There will be time, but for now we must keep clear minds, yes? And we have been here before of course …"

Watson subsided, but still glared at Clay. "Later."

-o0o-

Fire raged through the remains of 51A Fenchurch Street. All around, people were rushing to the scene to see what had happened. Gregson pulled himself to his feet from where he had been thrown by the explosion.

"Everyone alright?"

"Yes, Sir," came the reply, "all accounted for. Thanks for the warning."

"You can thank Mr. Holmes for that," smiled Gregson grimly. "Now we need to find him. These buildings back onto riverside wharfs, so let's get down there and see what we can see."

Gingerly, with ears still popping from the percussion, the police contingent made their way down a side alleyway until the reached the river's edge. Gregson surveyed the river, and could just make out the unlit shape of a steam launch making slow headway against the tide, moving upstream towards Southwark.

"That's what we want!" he shouted, "Let's go!"

More police arrived as he started off, a couple on horseback and others with wagons. A couple of cabs had been commandeered. As firemen arrived to address the blaze, the police set off apace.

"I owe you, Holmes," muttered Gregson under his breath.

-o0o-

The launch approached the river wall. A mooring rope was thrown down and within a short time Holmes and Watson were on the quayside. Clay marched them forwards. A clock chimed one o-clock.

Shortly they reached what appeared to be a mill house. Clay ushered them inside, and when all the party were in, locked the door. They were taken to a room on the first floor, and pushed into two seats.

"Do you know where we are?" whispered Watson.

"Hopton Street."

"What happens next?"

"I think we meet our host."

"But Clay is our host, surely?"

"Watson," Holmes sighed, "he's not the type to do this sort of thing. He's working for someone else. And I think I know who it is. Which worries me greatly."

"Gentlemen," interrupted Clay. "Welcome to my humble abode. This is where I manage the affairs of my little business."

"Moriarty's empire," replied Holmes. "You're just clinging onto his coat tails."

"The good Professor did indeed prepare the ground for me," said Clay, "and of course I have you to thank for his untimely end. But I like to feel I have added so much to his legacy. And with Moran out of the way I am able to pursue my own ambitions. I have built on his foundations."

"And now," said Holmes, "you're working for someone else. You've been hired, like a common thief, to do someone else's bidding."

The response was immediate. With a roar Clay launched himself at Holmes, struck him and clamped his hands around his neck.

"No more, Holmes!" he spat. "I've had enough. This is the end for you, so say your prayers!"

Suddenly Clay was on the floor. He had been struck from behind, and lay, groaning, on the carpet.

Holmes looked calmly into the face of Mary Wilcox.


	14. A Journey with Miss Wilcox

_She's back! Miss Mary Wilcox – who one reviewer kindly called 'the most despicable villain in all of Holmesworld - returns from the excitement in Cornwall (see 'The Mystery of the Cornish Legend'). So Holmes and Watson are clearly on shaky ground … Holmes, Watson and Clay are creations of ACD, Gibson, Cromwell and (worryingly) Miss Wilcox are mine._

 **A Journey with Miss Wilcox**

"Good morning, Miss Wilcox," said Holmes softly.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she replied. "Come on, let's be getting you out of here." The crossbow she held was directed at one of Clay's associates, who was backing off into the corner of the room along with the others; all unsure of their next move and quite uncertain as to how to deal with the woman who had quietly followed the up the stairs. Clay was still lying on the ground, groaning softly as blood trickled from the wound on his head where Miss Wilcox had struck him. She tucked the truncheon into her belt.

"I'm sorry," interrupted Watson, "but am I missing something here? In Portsmouth you were going to shoot us and then blow up the boat, in Cornwall you were going to drown the one you didn't shoot with that blasted crossbow; and now you're helping us?"

"Oh, Doctor," she breathed. "Please do not consider for a moment that I am helping you for altruistic purposes. It's just that I consider Mr. Clay here to be an unworthy opponent for you. I couldn't have him spoiling my fun."

"And what fun might that be?" replied Holmes as they made their way to the stairs.

"I have plans, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "That's all you need to know. I won't make the mistake of telling you too much – I know you too well."

"Watson's accounts do sometimes err too much on the side of praise. But I've told you that before of course."

"I am sure you deserve every approbation."

Watson shook his head, as though trying to dislodge something from his ear. It was like listening in on a lovers' tryst.

Outside in the street a hansom was waiting. She beckoned them to get into it, and then she herself got into the driving seat. They set off at a fair pace through the back streets of Southwark.

"I do hope Mr. Clay is alright," she called back to them.

"I'm sure he will live," replied Holmes. "How did he find out about the White Powder?"

"It was Gibson," she replied. "I dare say you know he took the blame for one of my little schemes in Kent?"

"I saw it in Mr. Cromwell's notes," said Holmes, "although that's not quite how he described it. He spoke of a lady he encountered during his time with Lord and Lady Hevellyn who had been abandoned by a lover and was with child. He helped her after she had lost everything, but she then accused him of a crime of which he was innocent. She then disappeared and the case was dropped."

"There are many gaps in your knowledge of me, I see," she replied, "but yes I was that lady. As to the White Powder, yes, you've probably guessed – or should I say deduced, and that probably from the overpowering smell - that it was the last of the 'Olive' shipment. I told Gibson about it a couple of years back, but he must have told Clay." She sighed. "Seems like another lifetime ago since we were having our fun in Portsmouth."

Holmes ignored her. "Who was the father of your child?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes, the gentleman doth enquire too much methinks - if you will excuse the Hamlet paraphrase. But really, a lady must have her secrets from her admirers."

"I would not have classed myself as that," he replied flatly.

"Not even on a professional level?"

"Stop playing games, Miss Wilcox. What are you going to do with us?"

"We are going to pay a visit to Mr. Gibson."

"I thought he might be involved. How do you know him?"

She paused, as if thinking whether to speak. "Later. Now please, a little quiet as I need to think."

Holmes whispered to Watson, "Thoughts?"

"I don't trust her."

"Let me start again. Thoughts that surprise me."

"What is the link with Gibson? He is obviously working with Clay, but there seems a link with Miss Wilcox. They have known each other for a couple of years at least, since that business in Kent. Why should he cover her misdemeanour?"

Holmes smiled. "Very well done, Watson," he said. "There is clearly more to their relationship than she is willing to tell. We may be able to use it to our advantage."

"You still think we are in danger?"

"Of course. A leopard does not change its spots, my dear fellow. I think we are only safe for as long as we are useful to Miss Wilcox."

"But she does seem different somehow."

Holmes cast a glance at his friend. "Ever the romantic," he whispered. "I think she holds her heart close to her, Watson. I think it has been touched rarely by the warm spring of love. Twice, maybe three times perhaps – Franks, who we met in Portsmouth; young Falconer in Cornwall; and whoever is the father of her child." He spoke wistfully. "She prefers the autumn now, I think. But she is different, I agree - hardened somewhat – do you not find it interesting that she does not refer to the child? I do not think she takes a maternal interest."

"She has not had the opportunity?"

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "There is a sadness there. I think she had to give the child up. But it is too late now, she has moved on, past regrets. But who knows, perhaps the child will have an influence on her at some future point."

"I can't see how. The child probably doesn't even know its mother exists."

"Perhaps," replied Holmes. "But, see, we are here I think."

The hansom slowed to a halt outside an unlit town house. "We are here, gentlemen," she said. "Please, if you would now follow me."

"Union Street," mused Holmes, almost under his breath. "Yes, that tallies."

"With what, Holmes?" asked Watson.

"Always do your homework," he smiled. "This is Gibson's family home."

Miss Wilcox went up to the door and knocked three times. After a short wait, the sound of bolts being drawn back echoed through the night. A church clock struck two. A dark lantern was uncovered, revealing the unshaven and tired face of Gibson. Seeing Mary Wilcox, he opened the door further and ushered them in. The door was bolted behind them.

They were led into a back room. Uncovering the lantern again, it was shown to be simply furnished, with no carpet and one poor quality picture hanging on the wall above a mantelpiece whose fire had not seen heat in many months. It smelled of damp.

"Good, we are all here," said Miss Wilcox. "Mr. Holmes, I need you to witness what is about to pass."

"And that is …?"

"Gibson has been writing a full account of his dealings with Mr. Clay," she replied. "I think you will be able to use this to clip his wings somewhat."

"And why has Mr. Gibson been willing to do this?" asked Holmes. "Does he hope to avoid my censure for his role in the death of Silas Cromwell?"

Gibson started. "What!" he exclaimed to Miss Wilcox. "You knew? You didn't tell me. What did he die of?"

"Suicide," interrupted Holmes. "He shot himself after finding that he had been fooled into signing away his inheritance and a large part of the cash belonging to the estate. By you."

"No!" shouted Gibson. "It was Clay! Clay said that it would be alright, and that the money and the estate would be his without fuss."

"But who do you think Clay was working for?" pressed Holmes.

"Well … himself of course," Gibson replied. "He runs things now that Moriarty and Moran are gone."

Holmes raised himself to his full height. "You are mistaken," he said calmly. "Clay was working for Miss Wilcox."

Gibson stared in shock. "You never told me," he said to her simply.

"Why should she?" said Watson. "I don't follow."

"You don't see?" Holmes replied. "Gibson is Miss Wilcox's brother."


	15. The Account of Mr Clay

_Sorry for the short hiatus there, things at work got a bit busy. We're back on the case now though; ACD wrote the original characters and I have added Miss Wilcox and Gibson._

 **The Account of Mr Clay**

The door of the warehouse broke on the fourth attempt by the 'Yarders. Gregson led the way as the police entered the dark building in Hopton Street.

"Wait!" exclaimed Mycroft Holmes. "Let me catch up!"

Gregson cursed under his breath, but stopped to let the elder brother catch up. Then up a flight of stairs to the first floor, where they found a small room off the main offices. Two chairs were set facing the door.

"Here?" asked Gregson.

"This is the address my dear brother told me in his telegram, yes," replied Holmes, panting fit to burst. He leaned on the back of one of the chairs, ad took out a kerchief to wipe the perspiration from his face. "We are clearly too late. But there is evidence of some violence."

Gregson nodded. The blood stain on the floor was recent, no more than half an hour, but those who had been in the room were gone.

"Very well," he said. Ordering his men to search the building, he sat in one of the chairs and beckoned Holmes to do the same.

"How did your brother know he would be brought here?" Gregson asked.

"He has his ways, Inspector," smiled Holmes. "He has been making a study of some of the more recent patterns of criminal activity in the metropolis," he continued when he saw the blank expression. "It is actually very interesting – I would recommend his techniques to you. In places or methods it is possible to identify common themes. He has been speaking much recently of his concern that the ghost of Moriarty is rising."

"Oh, come now!" replied the Inspector.

"Not literally, of course!" laughed Holmes. "But never the less he has become convinced that there is a mind which is modelling itself on the late Professor. And with some success."

"You mean?" Gregson was determined not to understand where he knew Holmes was leading.

"In that whoever it is, continues to be unknown to you. Come, Inspector, don't look so shocked. Be honest – without my brother's involvement, would you be sitting here tonight, having been almost blown up, having chased half across London, only to find I knew hours ago where this address was? You haven't seen the patterns - he has."

"I wish you had shared the information earlier."

"I was under instructions," he replied. "Dear Sherlock clearly thought he could deal with matters on his own, without your help."

"Maybe. But I hope that is not his blood on the floor."

For the first time Mycroft Holmes looked worried. "Indeed," he said at length. "Two o'clock, he was quite clear. A couple of hours to sort out the matter, and then for us to intervene if he had not returned. But I wonder whether matters have taken an unexpected turn."

-o0o-

"Did you know it was her?" whispered Watson, as Miss Wilcox and her brother talked quietly in the corner.

Holmes shook his head. "I am only human. I knew there was a guiding mind, but I thought it was Clay. The patterns fitted him best of all the criminals we have had the pleasure of crossing paths with. It is a most interesting though unexpected turn of events. I did not expect to see her again after our encounter in Cornwall."

"Well, it was Clay, Holmes," Watson continued. "You were right. It is only now that Miss Wilcox has become involved."

"No, that won't do. Cromwell Hall does not fit Clay's pattern. I think he has been working with – or maybe for – Miss Wilcox right from the start. You forget the family link, Gibson being her brother. I think the whole Cromwell affair has been planned for a long time – well over a year, perhaps even right from his appointment as Cromwell's valet."

"But why?"

"I have five possible answers, Watson," smiled Holmes. "Which of them is correct, we will see shortly." He stood up. "Miss Wilcox, can we go?"

She turned from speaking to her brother. "No."

"Well, for how long must we enjoy the pleasure of your company?"

"Mr Holmes," she sighed. "My brother is just finishing the account of his dealings with Clay. When it is done, then it needs to be placed somewhere of use to me. As an insurance policy if you will. It is at that point you will become useful. Now, please, be quiet. We will not be long."

Holmes sat down again. "They don't look very happy, do they?" he whispered to Watson.

"It looks as though she has not been telling him everything. He is most upset."

"You are correct, well done. That news of Cromwell's death came as a real surprise, his reaction was quite genuine. He clearly thought the scheme was about deceiving Cromwell out of money and title, but would not lead to his death. But he must have known how his master would react. That's what I find most surprising of all."

"I still don't understand why it was done in the way it was."

"I consider that the mining company link, although used as a cover, is genuine enough."

"What, coal?"

"No, my dear fellow. Something much more valuable – at least to Miss Wilcox."

-o0o-

"Where do you think they might be?" asked Gregson. "Do you have any inkling, any message from your brother that you may not have shared with me?" He resisted the urge to continue with the word ' _again'_.

"My dear Inspector, perish the thought!" replied Mycroft Holmes. "No I have nothing. So we need to use his methods – methods which I helped him refine of course. Were it not for the pressures of state, I would be out with him, catching ne'er-do-wells."

Gregson suppressed a laugh. The vision of the corpulent Mycroft Holmes chasing criminals around the streets of London was not one which he had expected. He merely coughed slightly, and led with, "and …?"

"Do we know any addresses in London of anyone connected with his latest case? The suicide of Silas Cromwell, late of Cromwell Hall?"

Gregson consulted his notebook. "I don't think so," he said. Now it was Holmes' turn to curse under his breath.

"Ah, no, wait," said Gregson suddenly. "There was something." He flicked through the pages of his notebook. "Yes, there!" he exclaimed. "The valet, Gibson - his family home is but ten minutes from here. Union Street."

The constables were returning from their fruitless search of the warehouse. Anything which might have incriminated the operation of whatever Clay was organising had been taken.

Gregson stood. "Come on then," he said. "Union Street. Will you be joining us, Mr Holmes?"

"Why ever would you think not?"

"It might be dangerous."

"What's good enough for my brother is good enough for me."

-o0o-

"It is done," Miss Wilcox announced as she stood up and came over to Holmes and Watson. In her hand was a sheaf of papers, densely packed with Gibson's spidery handwriting. "I think that will be all that is necessary to ensure Mr Clay's continued co-operation."

"A full account, then?" asked Holmes, rising to meet her.

"Of the Cromwell case, yes," she replied. "And of a few other choice morsels, just to keep the 'Yarders interests up should they see it."

"So you are selling Clay."

"Oh, no," she said, "I will still use Mr Clay. He has a very interesting approach to his activities. He just needs to be honed. No, I am giving the account to you, to hold as an insurance that he does what he is told."

"But you know I will go straight to the police with the information."

"No, I don't think so Mr Holmes." The note of menace in her voice was unmistakeable.

"The reason being?"

"The moment you do, the good Doctor here is dead."

Holmes held Watson's shoulder as he tried to rise from the chair. "You can't watch us for ever!" Watson exclaimed, trying to resist Holmes' strength.

"I can, and I will," she replied. "I have such plans, Mr Holmes! The good Professor was such an amateur, but I can move things along nicely."

"But to what end, Miss Wilcox?" Holmes replied. "Surely you know that justice will catch up with you, if not by my hand then by the hand of another. Why not cut your losses and go? Go back to Cornwall. Or to Kent. You have my word that I will not share the information in this document."

"Nice try, Holmes!" she said. "Why do you even try? This is the same conversation we had in the cave at Tintagel. You didn't change my mind then, and you won't now."

"Why do I try?" Holmes mused. "Simply to give you a chance."

They were locked in eye contact. The intensity of their expressions was such that a line of fire could be imagined between them. Miss Wilcox broke the gaze first.

"A chance? I don't need your chances, Mr Holmes. But I do need you to concentrate. I need you to know I am _deadly_ serious." There was clear emphasis on the 'deadly'.

Slowly she turned to face Watson. She raised the crossbow slung at her belt. "Sorry, Doctor, change of plan. I'll keep Holmes' brother under observation as my insurance, instead of you. So I have no further need of you. Please don't take it personally."


	16. The Secret

_Sorry about the continuing hiatus, things at work are just getting silly at present, but at last (?) here is the next instalment. Characters are created by ACD expect Gibson and Miss Wilcox who are mine._

 **The Secret**

Gibson rose and calmly stood between Miss Wilcox and Watson.

"No," he said simply, "no more deaths."

Fire blazed in her eyes for a moment, and then was gone. She lowered the crossbow. "Very well, as you wish," she said. "I hope that you won't regret this."

"I may be many things, Mary, but I am not a murderer." He turned to Holmes. "I am sorry you have been inconvenienced. And I am truly sorry for what happened to Mr Cromwell. He was a good man. Had I known how things were going to turn out, I would not have played along."

"Played along with what?" asked Watson.

Gibson looked at Miss Wilcox, who nodded as if to give him permission to continue. "Mary and I are only half siblings – we have the same mother but a different father. My father, Ernest Gibson, died when I was two years old, and Mary's father – a farrier named Paul Wilcox - then married my mother. He was a hard man, and before long I was sent away to one of my aunts. But you see, my natural father was a direct descendant of the original builders of Cromwell Hall, and when Mary found me again after all the years we had been separated she took it upon herself to give me back what she thinks is rightly mine."

"It is yours," she said. "The Cromwells took it from your family generations ago. I'm only giving you back what's yours by right."

"No, you're not," Gibson replied. "Look, I'm sorry but this won't do, Mary. I can't take the Hall knowing that a good man died. And where would I get the means to run it?"

"I told you."

"That will not do. I will not live by the fruits of your crimes. It is as much as I can do, here and now, not to hand you into Mr Holmes' care so that justice can be done you."

"You wouldn't dare, brother," she replied.

"Well, don't try me then. But this is where it ends, Mary." He opened a drawer in the table, and took out a sheaf of papers. "We are family, and blood is thicker than water as they say. Here, you take the deeds for the Hall and estate, and do with them what you wish. But I will have no further part in this."

The look on Miss Wilcox's face was one that neither Holmes nor Watson would forget. It was twisted into a furious rage, as she stepped forward and slapped him across the face. "But I want the Hall, and you!" she exclaimed. Then, as quickly as it came, the rage subsided. "I've only just found you! I thought we could live there and things would be different. I might even take up the role of a country lady."

Gibson smiled. "You wouldn't be able to," he said. "You would get bored. No, I'm sorry Mary, but you need to go. Now. And take Mr Holmes and the good Doctor with you."

She sighed. "Very well. I wouldn't take this from anyone else you know. Brother."

"Be happy, Mary," he said.

That seemed to be the conclusion of the business. With a wave of the crossbow, Holmes and Watson were ushered out of the room and within a few minutes they were outside, getting into the hansom. Miss Wilcox did not board, but looked up to them.

"It has not turned out as I expected, Mr Holmes," she said. "But at least I have my brother, and I will talk him round to taking the Hall. I cannot be on my own there with the plans that I have."

"I will do whatever I can to frustrate those plans, Miss Wilcox," replied Holmes.

"I would expect nothing less," she replied. "This is not the last time we will meet. What you do with the papers about Clay, I do not care. My brother did not seem very happy in writing the account. Do you know, I really don't think he liked laying Clay's activities down like that. I must have a word with him. He is that rare thing, a man of honour, Mr Holmes – perhaps a little like you? Maybe that's why I enjoy our little meetings so much. "

Watson snorted. "I don't recall them with any affection."

"But you have no sense of adventure, Doctor," she said. "Adieu, Mr Holmes." She smacked the flank of the horse and it set off along the street. She turned and went back into the house.

-o0o-

Holmes was quiet as Watson drove back towards familiar neighbourhoods. He turned an envelope containing Gibson's account in his hands, as though toying with the idea of opening it.

"You're quiet," Watson ventured.

"Worried, my dear fellow," replied Holmes. "I wonder what is going on in her head. Do you know, for once I really could not fathom out where that was going."

Watson smiled. "You're losing your touch, then?"

"Hardly," replied Holmes indignantly. "But I keep thinking we've missed something."

"Like?"

"Why did she want the Hall?"

"I think she explained it well enough."

"You think so? Then when we get back to Baker Street I will invite you to review the studies I undertook in preparation for tonight's little expedition. Our Mr. Gibson is no more a lost heir to Cromwell Hall than I am. I still have five possible solutions and I am vexed, Watson, vexed that I am not making progress."

Watson applied the brake sharply. "Then we need to get back," he said. "Do you think, perhaps, that the lady has other designs?"

"I will let my brother find out," Holmes replied. "Drive on."

-o0o-

The police took up station outside the house in Union Street. Gregson indicated for Mycroft Holmes to stay back out of sight as he gave the signal for them to move forward. At a nod, the sergeant struck the door. "Open, in the Queen's name!" he shouted. After a moment the door was opened. Gregson blew his whistle and the rest of the police rushed forward, pushing the door open and pinning Gibson roughly to the wall. Gregson stood in front of him. "You're under arrest."

"What for?"

"Well, trying to blow me up for one thing!" exclaimed the policeman.

"Not guilty."

"What about Silas Cromwell?"

"I am an innocent party in a conspiracy the full scope of which I was not aware. I only learned of his suicide tonight."

"Hmm. Check the house." The police went methodically from room to room, and reported back after a few minutes that they had found nothing. Mycroft Holmes entered the house as they were reporting.

"Where is she?" he asked Gibson.

"Who?"

"The lady. My brother told me there would be a lady here. Mr Clay's boss."

"If you mean my sister, and believe me she is not Mr Clay's boss, well, my sister has left, a few minutes ago."

"To where?"

"She mentioned going to Buckinghamshire. I think she was going get the night train."

Holmes' face turned pale. "But the station is only round the corner from Baker Street …."


	17. Miss Wilcox at 221B

_So much for telling a story in real time. It's taken ten moths, partly due to work pressures, partly my muse going off somewhere, and partly due to preparation for a medical procedure. So now I'm at home recuperating, at least I've got time to write the final chapter. I promise such a long delay between chapters will not happen again. As usual, all characters are the creation of ACD except in this instalment those who aren't, such as Gibson, Miss Wilcox, Cummings ..._

 **Miss Wilcox at 221B**

The crossbow rested on the table, aimed at Watson. Mary Wilcox sat facing Holmes, her finger on the hair trigger as she looked around the study. Watson swallowed nervously.

"Look, you really don't need ..." he started.

"Please, Doctor," she sighed. "I will not tell you again. This is only for insurance. It has been a long night. If Mr Holmes behaves himself, you will come to no harm." She turned to Holmes. "Do please continue with what you were saying; I think you were going to try for the third time to talk me out of whatever you think I am planning?"

"Indeed," replied Holmes, making himself comfortable in the chair. "But I was most pleasantly surprised when you decided to pay us this visit. I am so glad Mrs Hudson was asleep in her room, and that I opened the door to you - I really do not know how she would have reacted to having a crossbow of all things pointed at her. I however am quite used to it by now," he continued with a smile.

"I have an uncomfortable feeling that you are getting to know me too well, Mr Holmes," she replied. "Do you know," she continued as she looked around, " this place really could do with a woman's touch."

"Shall we get on with the business in hand?" interrupted Holmes. "It has, as you say, been a rather long night and I know my good friend will be wishing for his bed. Preferably without having been perforated in the process."

She waved her hand dismissively. "I don't know why I go in for the theatrics. It's not as though I really might kill you. Although you don't know that of course. But you are so much fun." She indicated that he should continue.

"I am so glad that you gave us enough time for me to fill in the small gaps in my understanding of this case, Miss Wilcox. Had you arrived earlier you might have interrupted my train of thought. But I have it now."

"I'm sure you do. Boast on, Mr Holmes."

"I arrived back here this evening with five possible solutions as to your scheme regarding the Hall. But I now am certain just the one. All it took was the Geological Survey of the North Downs."

Mary Wilcox sat more upright in the chair. "You are good, Mr Holmes..."

"All this talk about long lost inheritances, it's all a cover of course. How did you persuade him he really was your brother?"

"Gibson? He was easy, so alone and lost, so dedicated to service. I met him years ago, and decided even then he would be useful."

"That's no way to talk about your brother, half brother or whatever he is!" exclaimed Watson.

"But he isn't, is he?" replied Holmes to Miss Wilcox. "You fed him the story of him being some sort of long lost heir to Cromwell Hall just so that you could get your hands on the property deeds through his service with the Cromwell family. This is a plan," he continued, turning to Watson, "which has been many years in the making. Do not underestimate our guest, Watson, she has planned long and hard about all stages of the endeavour." He turned back to Miss Wilcox. "Madam, I do congratulate you on your inventiveness. Had only I not been around to break it."

She smiled coldly. "Yes, you think you always do that don't you? Well, come on, let's see how right you are. That's how you like it, isn't it? Showing off?"

"Miss Wilcox," Holmes said, rising from his chair and drawing the curtains to let the first light of the new day enter the room, "I do not 'show off'. Think of me rather as a connoisseur of fine wine, where my wine is instead the criminal mind. I am good at what I do." She snorted. "Very well, to start.

"Watson, this is a natural continuation of what we already know about Miss Wilcox. Recall when we first met her, she was setting up a trade in the new 'white powder' that would change the balance of power in Europe, living by the income from sale of that infernal material to the highest bidder. Well, thanks to my efforts it is all gone. She used up the last of it in the destruction at Fenchurch Street – the smell was instantly recognisable. But she still knows it is a viable means of income – she has none herself, and she so wants to be the Lady.

"So, where can she find herself new means of production? Where is the material to be found, particularly the one key ingredient that makes white powder what it is, its one unique property that give it its value to her? And then she finds it. In the Geological Survey."

"How..?" started Watson.

"Because when the railway line was being built through Reigate the engineers found deposits of the very material which she would need. Quietly she made enquiries, closing them down afterwards so that there would be no trace to follow. You recall the disappearance of Murdoch, the quarryman a couple of years ago?"

"Yes, you were too busy at the time, but the Police got their man in the end, that Dooley fellow. He admitted to the murder."

"But Dooley worked for Miss Wilcox, did he not?" She nodded in response. "And of course the quarryman had records of the local geology. She found that Cromwell Hall sat on a reserve of the material needed for her to resume production of the white powder. So she needed to get hold of the Hall to open a mine to abstract it, and needed people to help her with the production of the material. Which is where Mr Clay comes in of course."

Miss Wilcox smiled. "Actually, you really are very good, Mr Holmes."

"Cause and effect, Miss Wilcox," he replied. "I merely follow the trail through the twists and turns that lesser people try to put in my way. You needed Mr Clay and his operation to provide – how can I kindly say this – the 'face' of the operation? The manpower? The means of getting lots of things done quietly? Not that he really knew what was going on, how you played him - as you pay everyone. Including, or at least attempting to include, me."

"Clay was easy," she said. "He has such delusions. He runs the Professor's empire really very poorly. He saw in me I think a means of assistance, but his co-operation was very poor. I could not read him very well. I really thought you would come to some harm in Southwark, which is where it al started to go wrong I suppose. I didn't plan on making an appearance at that point, as doubtless you recognise."

"Of course. But once you had done so, and with my brother and the Police on the chase, I am happy to say it really fell apart very quickly. I trust Gibson came to no harm?"

"He isn't my brother, you've worked that out?"

"Of course."

"But at the end I couldn't harm him. He had been useful. And sometimes you really do want family." Her face brightened. "No, I have what I need. I have the Deeds to Cromwell Hall, which since I can't use it for the purposes I had intended, I will leave here for you Mr Holmes, to do with what you will." She placed the packet on the table. "You really have been most inconvenient. But I still have Clay. Gibson's statement will keep him under my power for as long as I need him. I will on reflection take the papers back please. Change of plan."

Holmes smiled coldly. "I wouldn't rely on that." He passed the unopened envelope containing Gibson's statement to her. "I'd open it now if I were you. Just so, you understand, I can see your reaction."

Something in his manner stopped her responding. Quizzically she opened the envelope. They heard her intake of breath. "What …?"

"I think he mixed lemon juice with the ink, Miss Wilcox. There was a definite pang in the air when it was being written. If you are to succeed you really must take note of these little details."

"The pages are blank ..."

"Of course, that's what lemon juice does. It dissolves the ink."

Even Watson with his long years of military service drew back as her face was twisted into fury. "I have nothing?"

"You could have the Deeds back. But I know what your scheme was, and you will be unable to use them before I present the details to the Police. You could run back to Clay, but remember that he saw you shoot one of his men with your crossbow, even after all he had done with and for you. He will take a lot of persuading to work with you again. And you have of course been involved in a scheme which albeit indirectly - although with no regret on your part - has led to the suicide of a good man, the murder of Cummings and the attempted blowing up of a significant proportion of the Metropolitan Force .." he paused. "I think, Miss Wilcox, that you have no cards left to deal."

She lifted the crossbow from the table. "And what is there to stop me ending it here?"

"Nothing at all of course," replied Holmes calmly. "But we have been here before, in Cornwall. You play with your food too much, Miss Wilcox. If you were more single minded, you would have shot me as I opened the door to you earlier. As soon as you did not, I knew we were both safe from you."

The look of cold fury crossed her face again. For a moment time slowed as she seemed to be thinking through courses of action. And then with a shout of frustration she was gone. They heard the door slam below. A few moments later Mrs Hudson timidly knocked at the door to the apartment. "I heard talking Mr Holmes. Is everything well?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson," replied Holmes, "I am sorry to have disturbed you." He went to the window and watched as the woman made off in the direction of the train station. Watson at last breathed out. "Did you really know how that was going to go, Holmes? He asked.

"I think so, Watson. She has a certain respect. She knows the world would be a poorer place without me. I do find our encounters invigorating, and I believe she does as well."

Within a few minutes there was a further knock at the door, which Watson opened to reveal the red face of Mycroft Holmes, with the police behind. The look of concern was quickly hidden. "You are well, then?"

"Very well, my dear brother!" exclaimed Holmes from the top of the stairs. "Please, come up and I will ask Watson to entertain us as he doubtless has a cornucopia of questions he now wishes to raise about Miss Wilcox. But before all that, I have something for you." He handed Mycroft the package containing the deeds of Cromwell Hall. "I am sure you can find some long lost relative who would be only too happy to take on the management of a fine country house. Or failing that, I understand some of the government's business requires a degree of secrecy? What better than a quiet place in the country?"

THE END


End file.
